


Battle Tactics

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, Light BDSM, canon divergence - The Gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4163016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Melisandre had a plan all along, and it certainly did not involve burning Shireen. </i>
</p><p>Alternate ending to the tent scene in GoT 5x07.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battle Tactics

**Author's Note:**

> Well, fellow friends in Lobster Flambe hell — this is the first smut prompt of the week. I received a double request for this one ("Mel doesn't suggest sacrificing Shireen"/"booty grabbing scene pans out"). I don't blame y'all. Hopefully this version of the scene is a little more satisfying.  
> xx

“I have seen myself walk along the battlements at Winterfell,” the red priestess insisted, though Stannis did not seem entirely interested in battle strategy now. _Good._ Still, she continued, “I have _seen_ the flayed man banners lowered to the ground.” To demonstrate her point, Melisandre bent far over—unnecessarily far over—the war table in Stannis’ tent, fingers gracefully knocking a Bolton marker down.

Staring resolutely at her own king’s sigil—the flaming stag amidst a bloody red heart—Melisandre felt an overwhelming affection for him warm her own heart, and she momentarily lost focus of her current goal. They would be victorious in the end, she was sure of it; her Lord always made good on his promises, and this promise was made to them so clearly through the fire, even her king had seen it, he had to have seen it—

Melisandre started at the feel of Stannis’ hand running across her lower back, then lower still. It was then she realized that she was still bent over the table, and that her ploy had indeed been successful.  _Time to truly focus._ Satisfied with the first part of her plan, the priestess endeavored to lean up and meet her king’s pointed gaze. There was no denying the naked desire in his eyes; normally Melisandre would have been shocked to see such passion from her king. He was always so stoic, serious. So obsessed with his duty that he never truly _lived._ But here he was now, hungry for life…or at least hungry for _her_. Even better.  _Perfect._

Yes, the priestess should have been shocked when his hand remained firmly on her backside, but she was not—no, not in the slightest. She had been plotting her king’s inevitable surrender for some time. 

They had been on the march to Winterfell for weeks, weeks that blurred together after leaving the Wall and its relative safety behind. _And warmth,_ she thought. All of Stannis’ men thought it, too. Ser Davos had been bringing back dire reports: sellswords deserting, men dying of starvation, soldiers freezing to their deaths in the bitter winter that had finally come. The darkness that would swallow the dawn was upon them, and they all sensed it; the king’s red shadow had been right all along.

Yet still they marched. Stannis knew his duty—as a king, yes, but also as Azor Ahai. He would take Winterfell back for Jon Snow and the Starks, but then he had a greater battle to fight in the North. He knew this. Her king was a good man, a just man. And so he marched, and he pushed his army to their breaking point, and then marched further still. He ate little, slept little, and spoke even less, and she did the same. There was really very little to say; she simply stood by his side throughout it all. _And now they truly say I am his queen_ , Melisandre thought, but this gave her no real pleasure. She desired neither power nor title. When she—not Queen Selyse—rode by his side, it was simply because it was her own duty as his advisor. When she came to his tent at night, it was only a matter of seeking counsel; the hour meant little in times of war. And in all that time she sensed it, _calculated_ it carefully—Stannis’ frustration building, his personal control slipping, the exhaustion of the Northern campaign threatening to push him over the edge. She saw it in his long glances toward her when she addressed him, the way his body tensed when she touched him, but most importantly in the fact that he never pushed her away anymore. He wanted her, that much was clear, and if her little strategy worked, it was only a matter of time before he would take her.

And so when Stannis’ lips descended roughly upon hers in that tent, she was not surprised. _Finally!_ She _should_ have diverted his attention back to the battles to come, back to their duties, but she did not, because they both needed this. Melisandre was all too eager to welcome him back into her arms and her bed. When Stannis’ hands fisted insistently in the scarlet satin at her waist, she silently mused that they would not make it back to _anyone_ ’s bed.

As if sensing her premature victory, Stannis suddenly pulled away. His eyes were screwed shut as he attempted to regain control of himself, his forehead resting against hers. Melisandre, however, would have none of his doubt. She guided his hands from her narrow waist to the gentle flare of her hips. 

“Don’t think, my king, only touch me…”

Stannis inhaled sharply, refusing to meet her gaze without shame. Still he allowed his own large hands to descend lower, one returning to cup her backside, the other hesitantly hitching the red layers of her gown up, up, until he glimpsed her pale knees, her—

“We should not, my lady. I don’t…I should not have—“ Stannis cursed as Melisandre guided his hand between her thighs, feeling the wetness already there. “ _Gods_.”

The priestess raised her eyebrows at him, and to his credit the king seemed properly chastised not to blaspheme again, as he instead silenced her indignation with another impatient kiss. 

Melisandre sighed with relief into his mouth, feeling her irritation melt away as Stannis’ unsure strokes between her legs became more insistent. Yet the priestess would not be satisfied with a quick bout of pleasure on her end. She knew her king needed to let go of his own control and doubt completely, to lose himself entirely in her for a few moments, to renew his strength and at least a small spark of confidence within his soul. If he was to have the motivation to lead this hellish march forward, Stannis needed to be absolutely sure of himself.

Pulling away, Melisandre reminded him pointedly, “You are the warrior of light, my king…” She raked her nails down his doublet, adding, “the son of fire…” Her breath hitched as Stannis backed her against the table, one of his fingers finding its way inside her, then two; ”the one true God’s champion and…” The priestess’ words were cut short by the involuntary moan that escaped from her throat. She regained her senses long enough to grip his belt, her chin tipped up to meet his eyes, dark with lust. When she spoke again, her own eyes were sparkling with defiance: “And I want you to prove it.” 

For a brief moment Stannis’ ministrations between her legs ceased, his face twisted into a trademark scowl.

“What are you on about, woman?”

Melisandre’s mouth quirked up in amusement, to his further ire. _Good. Let him be offended. Let him be angry._ “Are you not the one true king?”

Stannis’ eyes narrowed with fury. He abruptly pulled his hand away from her thighs. “Of course I bloody am.”

The priestess knew she was in dangerous territory as she leaned forward, even with her king who so trusted and respected her; she knew she was playing reckless when she teased his hardness through his clothing and pulled her hand away quickly. It was a risky game to play, even as his unofficial queen. She felt the thrill of the challenge burn like the white-hot desire pulsing through her veins. _Was this not what she lived for—to play with fire, and to be burned by fire?_ A final time she lifted an eyebrow at him, and with a tug on his belt, demanded, “ _Show_ me.”

Melisandre only had a moment to relish the incredulous rage in Stannis’ eyes before she was turned around and bent firmly over the table. _Back where I started,_ she mused, eyeing the Bolton marker just in front of her. Behind her she vaguely registered the king ripping his belt off, and she again considered the battle map laid before her, wondering how to best avoid knocking all their carefully laid strategies over. _Then again,_ she recollected, _it wouldn’t be the first time..._ All coherent thought left her, however, as Stannis tore her skirts up to her waist and thrust into her, _hard._ Not once, not twice, but over and over until the battle markers were scattered under her fingers, caught under her copper hair, strewn across the floor.

Outside their tent the wind and snow howled fiercely, and Melisandre prayed it would cover the sound of her own moans and their violent lovemaking. Stannis would not be pleased to be caught in such indecency by his own men in broad daylight, and he was not a loud lover himself, which meant the blame would fall upon her. Melisandre dared a devious glance back at him. “If I may say, my king—“ His hand delivered a stinging blow to her bare backside. “—Oh!”

Stannis waited until she had turned her gaze obediently forward again before resuming, “You may not. I am  _showing_ you that I am your king.” 

Another harsh thrust drove Melisandre’s hips into the edge of the table; she brought one hand to her lips, burying a satisfied smile against her fist. The other hand grasped at the surface of the table, bracing her body with shaking arms against the force of his thrusts. 

Still, the red priestess was not so submissive of speech. “The _one true_ king,” Melisandre corrected teasingly under her breath, though apparently not far enough under. She was rewarded with another sharp smack where his hand had been resting against her backside, eliciting a loud cry that was hardly muffled by her fist. 

“Quiet, woman.” Stannis' voice was strained, low. Defeated. Yet she sensed a hint of genuine contentment in his tone, one she had not heard in years—far too long. When Melisandre felt his hand snake around her hips to bring her to pleasure, she knew she had been truly victorious. On the brink of ecstasy himself, he groaned, "Have I shown you what you wanted, then?"

The priestess flashed a brazen smirk back at him, and answered him in sighs and the arching of her back. “Yes. Oh yes, my king.”


End file.
